


Sword and Shield

by Anonymous



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:00:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22306822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He is the sword. Diarmuid is the shield.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 2
Kudos: 45
Collections: Anonymous





	Sword and Shield

**Author's Note:**

> I've been lurking in the Pilgrimage tag for over a year, so I figured it was finally time to contribute.

The clang of metal is a familiar sound to him. It used to be a comfort, but lately it has become a nightmare. The air echoes with the sound of clashing swords and screaming men. He can feel the desire to fight surging through his veins... his very being quakes with excess energy that he craves to release through violent means. It’s been a long time since he’s felt like this but his body doesn’t forget. 

Blood spatters his face and his brothers in arms are screaming around him. It’s either him or his enemy, so he fights... cutting them down with his blade like they are merely sheep for slaughter. Their lives are but an offering to God in these holy crusades. Their deaths nothing more than a sacrifice for the Holy Land. At least that’s what he’s told when they charge him into battle, every time for who knows how long he’s been doing this now—nothing more than a pawn for the church. Time is blurred by chaos and violence. 

He screams in rage, surging toward his opponents faster than they can prepare for him. Every second feels like it may be his last, but it never is. He keeps going on and on, maddenly alive and fighting an endless war. When he first started to fight, he believed the propaganda they fed him. They were God’s warriors, holy crusaders. Now he doesn’t know anymore. 

He senses someone approaching him from behind—it’s an awareness he’s acquired through experience and bloody battles. He turns, slashing his sword before he can even think, before he can even see. It’s instinct. The figure stumbles back and stares at him in shock and it’s in that moment that the red rage clears from his eyes and he can see. 

_ It was Diarmuid.  _

He reaches out, but it’s too late. Diarmuid falls to his knees, looking up at him in horror. 

_ He’s horrified because he never knew you were capable of this. If he really understood the monster you are, he wouldn’t be surprised that it came to this.  _

He opens his mouth to apologize, but no words come out, as always. His silence, which was once a blessing, now feels like a curse. He has never wished to break his vow more, but at this moment his voice fails him. 

Diarmuid slumps, no longer able to maintain eye contact, and he rushes to hold him in his arms. He wraps him up tight in some semblance of comfort, though how much it is worth at the hands that hurt him, he does not know. 

He cups Diarmuid’s face as he begins to cough up blood. Too much damage has been done, his blow was too devastating to survive… it won’t be long now. The knowledge cleaves him in two, as if he was the one sliced by a blade. But there is nothing that can be done. He has ruined the one good thing in his life. It was always to end this way, he figures. There was no way God would let him keep something so good, so pure.

Diarmuid chokes, trying to speak. He tilts him forward enough that the blood can flow more freely and the boy wheezes out what will surely be his last words. 

“I-It’s okay. Not… not your fault.” 

His eyes are wet with tears, and it hurts more than if he would have said he hated him. Knowing that Diarmuid—good, sweet, angelic Diarmuid—in all his grace and forgiveness, uses his parting words to absolve him of blame… it's too much to bear. He surely does not deserve it. 

He shakes his head fiercely, tears leaking from his eyes for the first time since he was a young boy. 

Diarmuid looks like he is attempting to comfort him more, but blood is seeping through his robes and his breath is ragged. He seizes, and he knows it’s ending. He clutches him closer, holding on tight to his face and lowering his own to press his forehead against Diarmuid’s. It is what Diarmuid always did to calm him down, maybe he could return the favor and lead him into death’s embrace with a comforting gesture. 

He stays pressed close to him until Diarmuid’s struggling for life slows down and eventually stops. After a few more moments, he separates from him and looks into his wide, unseeing eyes. It is a sight he never wished to see, and it fills him with such grief, self hate, turmoil… he can feel it bubbling out of him. 

His throat fills up until he feels he is choking—he can no longer contain it and it bursts forth like an unholy wail. Diarmuid has gone where he cannot follow, where he will never be able to follow. 

_ “Friend, awaken!”  _

He jolts at the feel of hands on his shoulders. 

“It’s okay, it’s me! It’s me!” 

He ceases the thrashing he doesn’t even realize he had been doing and heaves great lungfuls of air. Awareness settles over him and he realizes he’s in a dark room, under a soft blanket. Sleeping… he was sleeping. 

He spins around and Diarmuid is there next to him, worry creasing his eyebrows. His hands hover as if he is unsure whether to touch. 

“It was only a dream,” he whispers. 

Tears shamefully fill his eyes. He grasps Diarmuid’s hands in his and leans forward until their foreheads touch. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, grounding himself in the moment. 

Diarmuid’s hands gently pull him down until they’re both laying together once more. They hold each other close, comfortable in the silence as always, as he calms himself down. He feels a peace wash over him that always comes with Diarmuid’s presence. His steady rock. 

Slowly, Diarmuid pulls away to look at him. “Were you dreaming about your past?” 

He knows, somewhat, of his life before the monastery. He knows he was a crusader, at least, and he knows he’s killed many men. He still loves him anyways. 

He shakes his head slightly, then he places a hand on Diarmuid’s chest. 

“About me?” Diarmuid asks, shocked. 

He gulps and nods. Shame fills him just thinking about it. 

“Did something bad happen to me in the dream?” he asks innocently. 

_ I killed you,  _ he thinks. He just nods. 

Diarmuid gently grasps his cheeks and leans forward to kiss him on the forehead. 

“It was just a dream,” he reassures him. “I am okay.” 

Is he okay, though? Since they lost the rock, and he had nearly died, they have been on the run. Diarmuid has not seen the monastery that he loved so dearly—his home—in over a year and he has shed his identity as a monk. He has never complained about it once, however, and he wonders how Diarmuid does not resent him for it. 

“You are with me now, my love,” Diarmuid whispers, stroking his hair. “Rest now.” 

It is uncertain what sleep may bring, but with Diarmuid ever by his side, he feels calm enough to be lulled. He should be the protector, the one watching over Diarmuid, but he feels safe in his arms nonetheless. His hands are gentle as they stroke his back—soft hands, hands that heal and give life, unlike his own. 

The nightmares cannot touch him like this. The guilt, the terror, the hurt… Diarmuid is a shield over him, preventing the blows from landing. And he is the sword, ever willing to fight for him. 

But there is no fighting tonight. Only the quiet that darkness brings and the surety of their love. And so he sleeps, and the nightmares plague him no more. 


End file.
